The blog mechanism has ruined my original organization, but you can still read section by section if you persevere. This screenplay was written way back in 1968-69, so it likely was the first ever created on Johnson. To read it, click on the earliest date button down below photos at left. Read through that, then click Home, which allows you to click on next date group (four sections there), then back to Home for another group, and so on.

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Saturday, August 30, 2008

Hellhound 19: See That Lonesome Road

DAWN--EXTERIOR LOGGING CAMP--MOVING

This is an East Texas "piney woods" logging camp with sawmill, board shacks, and an off-shift barrelhouse tavern right on site too; its flimsy sign has a handwritten "MUD'S." Both sawmill and barrelhouse are going full-tilt as Johnson wanders into camp, carrying his suitcase and the replacement guitar strapped across his back. He passes the working area with scarcely a sideways glance, arrives at Mud's just in time to stop, allowing two men, the one helping his drunk cohort, to stumble out from inside.

DRUNK (to Johnson): Good evenin', brother!

Robert looks up at the dawn sky, then grins and answers:

JOHNSON: Evenin' to you.

He walks on inside.

INTERIOR BARRELHOUSE

One long room filled with off-shift workers--a narrow bar, a few tables, a smoke-filled atmosphere, and a battered upright piano stuck off in one corner. An old juke joint/barrelhouse pianist named Henry sits noodling riffs and runs just about as tired as the workers all around the room. Robert skirts the bar and goes over to the piano.

ANGLE ON PIANO

Johnson sets his suitcase and guitar down, which attracts Henry's attention; he turns his head to the sound, revealing dark glasses and blind eyes. And he begins playing a more complete tune, some slow blues number.

HENRY: Who that?

JOHNSON (leaning on the piano): A weary man.

HENRY (playing throughout their talk): New man too, I'd say. The voice...

JOHNSON: Uh-huh. (about the music) Tha's nice 'n' peaceful.

HENRY: Slow drag for the end o' things. You play?

JOHNSON (looking over at the guitar): Gittar. Some harp when I 'uz a kid.

HENRY: That so? What'd you' name be?

JOHNSON: Robert Johnson.

Henry stops playing long enough to hold out his right hand.

HENRY: Henry Perkins. Calls me "Blin' Boy."

They shake hands and then he resumes the music.

HENRY: Seem like I hear talk of Robert Johnson. You him?

JOHNSON (shrugs): Depen's what you hear.

HENRY (smiles): Bad blues gittar, folks say.

JOHNSON: I get on.

Henry lifts one hand to reach for his beer mug atop the piano, finds it empty.

HENRY: Mebbe we try some piano-an'-gittar after 'while.

JOHNSON: Don' min'.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Henry turns to call across to the bartender.

HENRY: Hey, Mud. Two short'uns.

Robert walks over to pick up the two mugs. The room has gradually begun emptying out as the next camp shift makes ready to start. He returns with the beers, pulls up a chair, and sits down next to Henry. He sips from his mug, but Henry takes a deep draught, then sets his aside and resumes playing.

HENRY: Well, Robert Johnson, where be you boun'?

CLOSE ON THE TWO--FAVORING JOHNSON

Robert shrugs silently, then realizes Henry can't see that motion.

JOHNSON: Wherever. Somewheres better than I been, hope to God.

HENRY (slaps his knee): Ain' that th' trufe! But you ain' soun' near old 'nuff to talk it.

JOHNSON (bitterly): How ol' you got t' be to be dead?

Henry absorbs this silently, segueing into another blues number; the talk ceases for a moment.